


Gift Exchange

by Aithilin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Flirting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:18:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes exchange gifts each holiday season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of tied in with "A Present", I suppose.

The parcel had been delivered by room service while he was out. The simple box set on the little table by the widow had a delightfully apologetic note from the front desk on top of it— thankfully signed by the day manager herself, so Jim would know who to send Seb to go talk to about these little matters of privacy in the future. Someone had told her that he was expecting a package— an _important_ package— from “back home”, and who was she to question such deliveries?

It was, after all, just a week from Christmas. These sorts of things come through all the time. 

The note was discarded after he sent a text to Sebastian. The idiot would be dealt with and the other people using the hotel for its famed discretion would thank him later. 

Clearly not some sort of threat, the parcel was roughly the size of a book— lighter, more flexible than the hardcover it would have to be to fit in that sort of size and weight class. The dimensions were simple enough, and Jim was hardly surprised to see the stack of folded newspapers when he tore away the brown paper packaging. They were new— some just the printer’s rough copies of where the editor wanted the stories— and some completely unpublished. In the centre of the pile— found as he unfolded each paper, scanned the headlines clearly meant to draw his attention, and realized that several of his contracts and contacts in the UK would no longer be worth his time— was a small, simple holiday card. It was hardly anything more than a store bought monstrosity, but he understood the message clearly.

He examined the papers and unpublished reports more closely; pleased to see that someone had managed to trace the links he had placed with each uncovered scandal. It was months’ worth of work ruined, a handful of contacts facing serious charges, and he had now lost ground in one of his favourite cities. But the card… The little thing wrapped so neatly in all this bad news. 

Jim Moriarty couldn’t help but smile. Keeping the surprise must have been unbearable for his little detective— neither blog had mentioned any of these cases being worked, and none of his eyes in the UK had reported either Holmes sniffing around any of these contracts. 

“You clever boy.” He muttered, sending out a text to the only other contact he had bothered to keep in his phone. 

_I’ll be home for Christmas, pet. You’re in trouble._


	2. Chapter 2

The phone arrived a few days before Christmas. At first glance, the mobile was not anything spectacular— a simple enough smart phone, the casing not carrying any suspicious weight to suggest any tampering, arrived in a standard delivery box with paperwork intact. With both John and Mrs. Hudson out on their holiday party visits, Sherlock decided that the likelihood of a bomb being sent to just him alone was unlikely— only the most idiotic criminals ever threatened him alone without including John somewhere in the mix, and those sorts of idiots were not the type to send him a new phone. 

The first thing he did was turn off the GPS and location settings— well aware that the few moments they were on would still be enough to at least start monitoring him. 

After that, well…

John was away, there were no pressing cases, and his primary line was currently being ignored until Mycroft got the idea and left him alone. He would have hours to explore— or destroy— this new toy.

Despite his preference for chemistry and psychology and forensics, Sherlock liked technology. He liked the simple logic that came with building and designing new things like mobile phones and computers. Though he didn’t have the patience for strings of code, he could appreciate the beauty of a well-made and well-managed machine. And, this is what this phone was. Current market hardware with a whole new set of rules running the programmes underneath. 

They responded quickly to his curiosity— the running applications opening easily to him as he searched for new layers and tricks that had been embedded— designed— just for him. The applications and settings were at least a few years ahead of anything more widely available now— a new system to store maps, a new way to file notes, better voice recognition and recording. This little mobile, unseeming and innocent, looking like every other market phone, was a surprising little machine.   
Within an hour of exploring the device, two photos popped up from a file buried deep into the otherwise empty filing system. 

The first was of a view of London that he knew well. It was a tourist area— cleaned and primed with a handful of expensive restaurants and cafes with a view of iconic London. 

The second photo had him on his feet and out the door to hunt down the exact view. It was of a small café table— warmly lit, with a simple style that could be from any number of safe and practical establishments catering to the tourists— with a date and time scribbled on a napkin. Today’s date. 

Sherlock made it to the café with a handful of minutes to spare— composed and certain that Mycroft was not going to meddle. The café itself was crowded and lively, with tables taken by couples on first dates, last dates, and the expected tourists looking to grab a quick meal before they moved on to the next attraction. By the time   
Sherlock arrived, the coffees had been ordered and his was getting cold. 

“Do you like the new toy, pet?” Jim Moriarty smiled from the table in the corner— his back shielded by a hideous painting of the Tower done by some local art student. A flippant wave indicated the open seat across from him, placing Sherlock exposed in the window as he accepted the invitation. “Was Father Christmas good to you?”

“I was under the impression that there were still eight days until Christmas.”

“Minor details.” There was nothing Sherlock could learn from the way Moriarty was dressed, or sat, or from what he was drinking— it was a mirror of his own, though the man was slightly more travel-worn, and lacking sleep, and clearly looking for praise regarding his gift. 

“If I can find a cuddly wool case for it, I might just nickname it ‘John’.” An insincere smile before he lifted the cooling coffee to his lips, still cataloging the details of Jim Moriarty in front of him. Quick eyes darted between a flex of a hand and the tight line of Jim’s mouth— before the tension melted away and Jim laughed. 

“Then you’d force me to go against our little deal, Sherlock. And that would ruin the whole game.”


End file.
